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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29769501">Burst into Color, Returning to Life</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/archersand/pseuds/archersand'>archersand</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>5 Seconds of Summer (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Blind Character, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:54:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,526</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29769501</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/archersand/pseuds/archersand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When the old house up the road was bought, Luke never expected to go inside. But a job's a job and if it pays well to clean the big unused rooms Luke will do it. Even if Mr. Clifford, who makes no appearance and with his rules about how Luke isn't supposed to ever interact with him, seems a little bizarre and eerie. But whatever, right? It's just for now. And Luke can put in his headphones, keep his head down and just get paid.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michael Clifford/Luke Hemmings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Ok ok, I know at the end of the last thing I wrote I was like "peace out, yo! Archersand out!" But. Here I am. And I'm not going back and editing that so. You can call me a hypocrite if you'd like but you should know I've watched 3 series of Taskmaster in the last 5 days so I'll probably picture you as Greg Davies. Let that detract you or spur you on as it will. </p><p>ANYWAY! this story has themes of dealing with physical disabilities, abuse and Luke Hemming being just the nicest person ever. If you'd like tags to do with any of those things please let me know. I'm still really in the dark about taging things but I will do my best. </p><p>ALSO, this is inspired by the Jarvis Johnson Youtube video where he comments on how every Netflix reality show the contestants are without one of their senses. "...next summer, Love is Stinky" oh Lord that made me laugh. Ok! This intro is long enough! On to the story!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The house up the road had been for sale for ages when it was purchased. Luke didn’t see the movers. One day it was empty, the next the sign had disappeared from the front gate. Almost a year later, Luke had forgotten anything to do with the house but he saw the ad in the paper advertising for a part-time cleaner and he thought, why not? An easy side job to pay the bills between classes. No mental strain needed. But before he started, the middle aged businessman who’d hired him, very blandly named Mr. Johnson, sat Luke down very seriously in the massive house’s sterile kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re going to work in this house, there’s one thing you have to understand. Mr. Clifford values more than anything else, his privacy. You are never to enter his room, you will not see him, you will not speak to him. Do you understand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh. Ok.” Luke was thinking of that Gatsby quote. About how very different the rich are from you and me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If there’s a problem in the house you call Steven, his carer or you call me. You come Monday, Wednesday and Friday evening, you do your job, you don’t post anything about this house to your...Facebook or google chat or whatever you kids are using these days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got it.” Luke fought a smile. “No posting about this job on google.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Steven will show you around when he gets back from the store. You can wait for him here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a good thing the job was so easy and paid so well or it hardly would have been worth how eerie it was. The house was dead silent after Steven, Mr. Clifford’s carer, and Calum, the cook, left for the night. Luke dutiful took care of each task on his extensive lists, polishing mirrors in rooms clearly no one ever went in, vacuuming the already pristine carpets. He washed loads of the same clothes over and over, dark colored sweatpants and cotton t-shirts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he left, usually around 8 or 9 at night, he always looked up at the window where Mr. Clifford’s bedroom was. But the window was always dark. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Steven was middle-aged too. He parted his hair precisely in the middle. He smelled like sandalwood. He always entered the room making bombastic statements. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Clifford is in such a mood today I honestly can’t tell you how we’re going to get through to tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke did not know how to feel about him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily Calum, the cook, was fun enough to make up for it. He cooked amazing meals that came back from the upstairs bedroom largely uneaten. He kept trying new recipes, pickled cabbage and caramelized carrots and a beef wellington that took ages. But the trays he sent up for dinner came back with what was obviously only the most reluctant bite or two missing.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Calum kept a good humor which Luke appreciated. After a few weeks, they were sort of almost friends. They were about the same age and, if Steven was upstairs or out, Luke sometimes illegally folded the laundry at the kitchen island so they could compare music collections. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I ask you something? About Mr. Clifford?” Luke asked one day.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Go for it.” Calum turned from the stove. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You never met him? In all your time working here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope. He’s a...what's-it-called. Recluse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But something must be wrong with him, right? Health wise? If he has Steven with him all day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess. I don’t really know. They just told me to make him meals and so I do.” Calum was almost ridiculously easy going. He was probably the kind of person who didn’t feel the need to lock his doors after watching a true crime documentary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think he’s like? I’m picturing him about 100 years old and like, frail.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, me too. Real crotchety. Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They heard Steven’s heavy steps thumping down the stairs. Luke scooped up the unfolded laundry and hurried to heft the basket onto his hip. Calum turned back to the stove. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Clifford has no idea how lucky he is. You know how hard it is to find good people? Who stay working in jobs like mine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m guessing...really hard?” Calum said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s right. Everything I do for him with no thanks...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke made a hasty retreat towards the kitchen exit. Calum waved to him sadly with the wooden spoon.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night, when it was just him and Mr. Clifford, Luke paused for a minute outside the master bedroom door. It was just gone 8:00. There were no sounds coming from the room. For all Luke knew, Mr. Clifford didn’t exist at all. Maybe he was alone in the house. The creaking and groaning of it settling around him took on a sinister lilt. Luke shuddered and put his headphones in his ears, blasted </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Pretended he’d never thought that thought.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A week later, Luke was cleaning a spare bedroom across the hallway from the master bedroom. Steven and Calum had already left for the day. Suddenly, there was a sound from the bedroom for the first time ever. A strangled cry and a crash. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke sprang out of the bedroom and stopped with his hand on the master bedroom’s door handle. He was never supposed to see or talk to Mr. Clifford. But the phone number for Steven was all the way downstairs, taped up next to the landline in the kitchen. He knocked gently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello? Mr. Clifford? It’s just Luke, the cleaner. I wanted to make sure you were ok?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok. I’m just. I’m just gunna open the door.” I’m about to be fired, he thought. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. He pushed open the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first thing he saw was a huge four poster bed, the sheets all twisted and disappearing over the far edge. He hurried around the bed. There was someone on hands and knees there, tangled up in the bedding. The end table had been knocked over, a drinking glass smashed in a puddle of water. The person on the floor looked young, barely older than Luke if at all. His shoulders were wrenching forward and back, his stomach heaving and when Luke knelt down he retched again though nothing came up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you ok?” Luke asked, even though. Obviously, no. “Do you want me to call Steven?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Clifford looked up at him, panic-stricken. His eyes were blank, unfocused, unseeing. “No! Please don’t! Please, please-” he curled back up, then, “did I break it? Did I break something?” His voice was a whispery rasp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just a glass.” Luke looked over at it. “I can take care of it. How bout.” I’m going to be fired, I’m going to be fired, “I help you over to the bathroom, you get cleaned up, I clean this up, and then I can make you something to help settle your stomach? Tea? Toast? Eggs? I can make about 17 different kinds of eggs.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok.” Mr. Clifford said after a second’s hesitancy. He reached up and Luke took his arm, helped him the rest of the way. Clifford leaned unsteadily into Luke’s side like he was used to being led that way and Luke wondered again how much he was seeing with those hazy eyes. In the ensuite bathroom, Clifford finally let go of his arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll go clean up the glass.” Luke took a step back. “Unless you need more help?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. I’m good.” He had turned towards the shower, was reaching to pull his shirt over his head. Luke hurriedly closed the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Luke swept up the glass, cleaned the floor, straightened the sheets and the duvet on the bed, while he heard the shower turn on in the bathroom. He figured he had just a little time. He went to the kitchen and scrambled some eggs, made some toast, started tea steeping. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Back upstairs, when he knocked on the bedroom door a second time, this time Clifford answered. “Come in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was laying under the blankets, propped up against the headboard. Luke cautiously came closer, sat down on the edge of the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I made you some food, if you want to try it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” Mr. Clifford’s voice was still soft. His wet hair hung all in front of his face. “Thank you,” he added, politely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke put the tray across his lap and took Mr. Clifford’s hand. “Here. Silverware is here” He touched Mr. Clifford’s hand to the spot and then moved on, “I made you tea, here. Water, here. Toast, here. Scrambled eggs.” He returned Mr. Clifford’s hand to where he’d picked it up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Mr. Clifford said again. He rubbed his fingers together like he didn’t understand the journey they’d just been on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well. I guess I’ll leave you to it.” Luke made to stand back up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay,” Mr. Clifford looked up almost frantically. “I mean, if you don’t have anything else to do. I’d like it if you stayed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe I won’t get fired, some selfish part of Luke’s mind thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok,” Luke sat back down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Clifford picked up the fork, found the eggs again. Took a bite. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“These are really good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks. Scrambled’s not my best version of eggs but it’s not bad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure. I can make you other kinds of eggs sometime, if you want.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mr. Clifford seemed preoccupied with eating, his fingers finding the toast, taking a huge bite. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re the boss. Just say when.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How am I? As a boss?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re great. You’ve really created an environment that fosters self-motivated work ethic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That made Mr. Clifford laugh, a surprisingly loud sound in the otherwise silent house. He covered his face with his hands, like he was embarrassed by it. But then said, “Wow. I am good. I should give a TED talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or write a book.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh. That sounds hard. You can do it for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See? That’s what I’m talking about! Look at that delegating.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clifford laughed a little again, reaching carefully for his tea cup. He skirted his fingers around the rim of it, picked it up with two hands. “So, are you here...every night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, no. I’m here Monday, Wednesday, Friday in the evenings, cleaning. The man who hired me was really good about making a schedule that worked around my classes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re in school.” He seemed to be working out a puzzle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. I’m doing music theory. I think I want to teach music. But sometimes I play a show on the weekend. Just for fun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Clifford set his cup down. His face had abruptly shifted, hardened. He pushed the tray back. “I’m tired now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did I say something wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” His voice was deeply unconvincing. “But you should go now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Oh. Ok.” Luke scrambled to get up off the bed, to pick up the tray of half-eaten food. “Good night then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Clifford had already pulled the blankets up past his shoulders, turned away towards the fading light coming through the window. He looked like he was already falling asleep.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke made sure to clean up all signs that he’d used the kitchen. He skipped a couple things on his list that no one would ever notice anyway. He took himself home early. He felt like he earned it.   </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Monday, back at the house, Luke was dusting the fancy books in the library. Their gilded spines looked like they would never be cracked but Luke dutifully took each one off the shelf. He had his headphones in, was singing along to his classic rock playlist, when he caught someone out of the corner of his eye. He dropped the book he was holding, gasping dramatically. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Clifford stood in the doorway, his hands pressed against either side of the doorframe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess you noticed me,” he said, smiling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke spluttered. “Uh, oh, Mr. Clifford, um, can I help you, uh...sir?” It felt very wrong to say that to someone his own age. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Clifford also looked horrified. “Jesus, please don’t call me that. My name’s Michael.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, ok.” Thank god.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I heard you. Singing. And I thought. Well I wondered. When you offered to make eggs again, did you mean that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh course!” Luke said, relieved. He picked the book up off the floor and returned it to its place. “What kind would you like?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seriously, I can make almost any kind of egg. Suggest something complicated, I bet I could make it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe like. That kind where it’s like the bread with the egg in the middle? Can you make that?” He seemed extremely reluctant to even suggest it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah! A toad-in-the-hole! Those are awesome. I can definitely make you one.”   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I come? If it’s not too much trouble?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure. No trouble.” Luke walked over. Michael reached out a hand, tucking it slowly into the crook of Luke’s elbow. It felt like they were promenading in Victorian England. It was strange to be so close to someone he barely knew. He could smell the shampoo Michael must use, the detergent he knew went in with the clothes. In the kitchen he stopped by the stools at the island. “You could sit here while I make it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael slid onto the stool after feeling around. Luke dug out some bread and butter, started heating up a skillet on the stove. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um. I wanted to say. I’m sorry. About the other day.” Michael was running his fingers over the marble of the countertop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry about what the other day.” Luke leaned over the island across from him, buttering both sides of the bread. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to, you know, kick you out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s your house, man. You don’t have to explain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s not like that. You just reminded me. I haven’t played music in a long time.” Michael drummed his fingers against the marble, pulled a little at his hair. Finally, “I used to be in a band, before, you know.” He gestured vaguely at his eyes. “We were finally really making it. I thought. I mean, we had like one song that was really taking off.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke cracked the egg into the hole in the bread. Turned back to Michael. “Would I have heard it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe. It was on the radio all the time. It was called, Jet Black Heart?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No shit?” All professionalism was apparently out the window. “I remember that. That song is a jam.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s my song. I wrote that.” Michael looked absolutely charmed by this reaction. “That was my band.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God Damn. I can’t believe you wrote that.” He hurried to flip the bread. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah well. It was a big down hill from there.” Michael’s face settled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I ask you? I mean, you don’t have to tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I don’t mind. It’s just. I can’t remember it all that well. And the doctors tried to explain but. After it happened. I didn’t handle it very well so even trying to talk to me about it was rough. It was like a chemical fire? Some stage thing that got in my eyes.” He lifted his fringe to show. There was a little scaring there around the left eye. “I can still see a little bit of shadows and shapes out of my right eye but this one is totally gone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s. Um. I’m sorry.” Luke plated the eggs and slid them across the island. “There’s nothing they can do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have glasses around here somewhere that are supposed to help clear things up a little. But I wasn’t interested back then. And now. I have no idea where they are.”  Michael took a bite. “Oh my God. This is so good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.” He bit his lip a little, where his lip ring used to be. An old habit. “You know. I bet if you asked, you could probably have something like this any time. Calum could probably make it a thousand times better than me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Calum?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Calum, your cook?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. That’s bad, isn’t it? That’s bad that I didn’t know that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Although kind of. “But you should meet Calum. He’s a really cool guy. He was just saying to me he wants to make food you like. Maybe Steven could set up a time for you to meet him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmmm. Maybe.” Michael was getting cagey again but was still eating, chasing around the egg with the bits of toast. “I don’t want to make him do too much. I’m so aware Steven does so much for me already. I’m really lucky. It’s really hard to find PCAs who stay in a job like Steven has.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something about that statement niggled at Luke’s brain. Steven coming down the stairs in a huff, declaring himself undervalued, overworked. Luke chose not to comment on this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you all finished?” he said instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Michael pushed the plate away. “Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael seemed reluctant to leave but stood anyway. “Well I guess I’d better.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.” Luke waited til Michael’s footsteps receded from the stairs before washing the plate and cooking items. He left pretty much after that because knowing a bit of Michael now it seemed impossible he could care about dust-free books and mirrors buffed to a shine. Luke pondered this on the short drive home. The old house clearly bought after Michael had lost his sight. But furnished as if it didn’t matter. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Friday!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“So someone’s been eating my eggs.” Calum leaned over the counter conspiratorially.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok. Yes. I can explain,” Luke started. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s cool, bro. You’re here late. You get hungry. I usually buy extra eggs anyway. Just make sure you leave some."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No but really, I have to tell you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steven entered the room like a wind storm. “I don't know what's wrong with Mr. Clifford today. He’s being fucking impossible.” He slammed the tray of uneaten food down on the counter. Not a single thing looked touched. Calum looked down mournfully at all his hard work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t like it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t like a single thing about anything all day. All he did was bitch all day. I don’t have to take this attitude. Someone should tell him he’s not 5 years old.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke watched out the window for the very instant Steven and Calum’s cars left the driveway. Then he made his way up to Michael’s room. There was no answer when he knocked. Luke pushed the door open anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s me, Luke? Can I come in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael was sitting curled into the big chair next to the window. “Yeah, ok.” He said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke walked across the room. He felt awkward looming over Michael so he knelt down next to the chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he began but was distracted by bruises on Michael’s forearm, big newly dark marks that wrapped around his bicep. “Hey, what happened?” He touched the bruise gently so Michael would know what he was referring to and Michael flinched away, covering it with his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing, I run into stuff all the time. Did you want something?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really. I just wanted to see if you were ok. Steven mentioned it was kind of a rough day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael shrugged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can talk about it if you want. Maybe I can help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, the person who cleans my toilets is going to have all the answers.” Michael gasped the second he finished the sentence, before Luke could even think of being offended. “Oh Jesus, I didn’t mean that, I swear.” He groped out for Luke, grabbing at his hands. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ok.” Luke rubbed the back of Michael’s hand, hoping it was comforting. “It’s ok.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m an asshole. You don’t have to pretend, you don’t have to give me a pass-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not! I swear, I’m not! Ok, maybe I am but,” Luke thought for a moment, “but maybe it’s being cooped up in this room, eh? When was the last time you got out of here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had a doctor’s appointment last week?” Michael said hesitantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean like, for fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Uh. I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok. Well. I know a place that does the most amazing pie. How bout we go get some?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael looked down as if he was seeing his flannel pants and cotton t-shirt. “I’m not really dressed for going out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh please, it’s a diner. There’s no dress code.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have any. Cash on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke thought about that, sitting on the floor of Michael’s mansion. “Well how about I don’t clock out and then, when I buy the pie it'll really be you paying me to buy pie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael considered. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I absolutely would.” Luke said. “But you haven’t said no yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok,” Michael took a long time to say, “Ok, yes, ok.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luke held his hand over Michael’s where it was placed on his arm. All the way down the stairs, out the door, into his car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the drive way, Michael slid into the front seat of Luke’s rusted out Honda Civic. Luke looked over at him before starting the car. He’d put on a hoodie before leaving the house, too large. It hung almost to his knees and he pulled the sleeves up and over his hands. He’d put on a hat too, an old beanie that contained his messy hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re being creepy, Luke said to himself, finally turned his key in the ignition. The radio coming on aggressively burst through the silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh shit, sorry,” Luke quickly reached for the dial, “I’ll turn it off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, that’s ok.” Michael smiled. “I like this song.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they pulled into the diner, the song wrapped up and the host began introducing the next song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Up next we have the new single by Ashton Irwin, who’s debut album is set to drop next week.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael gasped a little. “Ashton?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The opening chords jumped out of the speakers, strong and confident. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know him?” Luke didn’t turn off the car, even though he finished maneuvering into a parking space. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. He was the drummer in my old band.” Michael turned toward the window. “He was always really talented. Wow, this is really good, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Luke nodded even though Michael couldn’t see it. “Does it bother you to hear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Michael shrugged, just a quick movement of his shoulders. “It feels fucking terrible. But that’s not his fault, right? That’s my problem. Man,” The song had risen to a crescendo, “that genius fucker. Can we get pie now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Luke led the way into the little diner, situating them in a booth. When the waitress came by, they both ordered one of the specials. Michael was obviously distracted. His fingers drummed on the formica. “Were you and Ashton friends, before?” he chanced asking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, for sure.” Michael didn’t seem bothered by the question. “Like brothers, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When’d you see him last?” Luke felt like he was navigating a minefield. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He came to the hospital after. I wasn’t. I said some things. I haven’t heard from him since. I don’t blame him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pie arrived. A welcome distraction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish I could apologize.” Michael said, a few minutes later. “I feel bad. About what I said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe you should. You could call him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have a phone anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weird, Luke thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could use mine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have his number memorized.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could email him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know how I could.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could type it up on my phone? You could dictate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael ate a bite of pie. The blueberries were turning his mouth purple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great!” Luke pulled out his phone. “What’s your email?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right now? We’re doing this right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, right now. No better time than the present. Once begun is half done. Ect., ect. What’s your email?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you have to promise. You can’t look at what other emails I have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael rattled off his email and password. Luke did his best to look at nothing, only locating the New Email button. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hit another roadblock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should I type ‘Dear Ashton’?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about just ‘Hello’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about, ‘Hey, Ash’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was easier with that figured out. Until the signing off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How bout ‘warmly, Michael’?” Luke suggested. “Best? Sincerely?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Naw. Just put a little dash and, ‘Mikey’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you read it back to me?” The pie was long gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. ‘Hey Ash, (comma) I just heard your single on the radio. Sounded awesome. I know I said some things last time we spoke. I hope you know I didn’t mean a single word. I couldn’t be prouder of you. (Dash) Mikey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think it’s ok?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s perfect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok. Send.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sent.” Luke turned off his phone before he could focus on the long string of unread emails. “Hey, can I call you Mikey?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Michael laughed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” He let his voice go deliberately whiney. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because.” He was still laughing. “You haven’t known me since I was 16.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not fair. I can’t even work up to that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The waitress had circled back to return Luke’s credit card. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drove back to the house the long way, rocking out to Immigrant Song. Michael was the most relaxed Luke had seen yet. Shrieking out the chorus and laughing loud enough to drown out the radio. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. For tonight.” He said when Luke deposited him back in the chair next to the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did it help? A little bit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. It did.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. I’m going to go home now. I’ll see you Friday, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok. Goodnight.” Michael was looking up at Luke like he hung the moon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before driving home that night, Luke found all the songs Ashton had released to date. Then he queued up Jet Black Heart. It made him feel guilty for some reason, listening to Michael’s voice. Like he was witnessing some past iteration of Michael that had been stolen away. Something precious that was gone forever. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi, hello, hope you're well! You wouldn't believe the weather we're having in my part of the world! The sky is blue for miles and miles and life feels grand. I'm sending those vibes your way, lovely person reading this. Also, chapter 5.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Thursday, Luke spent all day jumping every time his phone made a noise. He was convinced any minute Ashton was going to write back. It was just hitting him how close he was to famous people now. Like, real life famous people. Who did famous people things. And also, he was realizing that Michael didn’t have a phone or a computer. Didn’t go places. He must be so bored, Luke thought. He must be bored out of his mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he hatched a plan, loading up his car Friday evening. He barely said hello to Calum, vibrating with excitement through his cleaning schedule until he was alone in the house with Michael. Then, he got all set up in the library that no one ever set foot in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he was invited into the room, he found Michael was sitting on his bed, swathed in layers of sweatshirts. He grinned at Luke. “Hey. What’s up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey.” Luke swanned over to the bed. “I’m too excited. I can’t do any small talk. I brought you something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it? You didn’t have to get me anything. What did you get me?” The excitement was catching.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come. Come and see. It’s in your library.” He took Michael’s hand, bodily pulling him along, out of bed and out the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the library, Luke pulled Michael over to a little end table tucked away in the corner, hidden from the view of the doorway. Just in case Steven ever walked past the room. He brought Michael’s fingers over to it. Michael felt out the squared edges, the nobs and arm and the needle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A record player? You got me a record player?”    </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s from my apartment. I thought you might want to borrow it. And also these.” Under the table, the box that held most of his records.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael pulled one out, wrinkling his nose a little bit when he held it up to his face. Luke had got most of them for a couple bucks a pop at flea markets or garage sales. They had worn edges and faded covers and smelled strongly of mildew. Luke had a panicked moment, looking at Michael’s scrunched up face, that maybe he’d been mistaken. Maybe a rich musician wouldn’t be interested in his crappy old records. But then Michael’s face lightened in happiness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can we listen to one? What’s this one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course. That’s Tom Petty. Here let me show you.” Once it was turned on, Michael didn’t really need to be shown. He already knew how to slide the record out, carefully finding where to place the needle.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He slid down to the floor, his back against the end table, while Tom Petty’s voice swelled to fill the room. Luke sat down next to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God. Listening to music. I forgot how nice it is, just having music playing.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You haven’t? Since the accident?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. When it first happened, I’d get all upset. They decided I should put it all away until I was more...ready.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who decided?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steven. My therapist. Mr. Johnson, the guy who hired you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, who is that guy, exactly?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s my court-appointed conservator. They wanted someone to make my decisions when I was so unstable. He makes sure my estate’s running smoothly. Pays the bills. Hires my staff.” He gestured to Luke. “Right after. When I was in the hospital. I was just so angry, screaming at everybody all the time. You know, like what I said about Ash.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But that was ages ago. You’re not like that anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah but. Like. I’d probably sign my whole bank account away to someone on accident and not even know it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You would not. You went blind. You’re not stupid.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks. I think.” He got up to turn over the record. “But my brain gets so foggy sometimes. I can’t remember what day it is, what time it is. I still haven’t figured out how to tell which one is the shampoo in the shower. I can’t find my glasses.” He settled back down, closer to Luke than before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll find them.” Luke hoped it wasn’t over stepping, stretching his arm up and around Michael. “Everything is somewhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a good person, Luke Whatever-your-last-name-is.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hemmings. And your welcome.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael leaned over a little, resting his head on Luke’s shoulder. Luke couldn’t imagine it was comfortable. He’d been told before he was too tall, his shoulders too bony. But he didn’t say anything and Michael didn’t move. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The whole weekend Luke was on edge. He watched a thousand Ashton Irwin interviews. In every one he seemed so nice, so generous, sweet. But he hadn’t answered Michael’s email. Every once in a while, if he came upon an old enough one, Michael would be in the interview. His hair was a different color in every interview. He seemed carefree. He laughed at nearly everything Ashton said. He let himself be bullied into trying a pickled onion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Monday, he was taking out the garbage when he happened to glance into Steven’s grey sedan. There, just barely visible poking out from below the passenger seat, Luke could see a glasses case. Some uneasy dread churned in Luke’s stomach. But, he tried to tell himself, it could be that Steven wore glasses outside of work. Maybe just for driving. He tried the car door. It opened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke felt his whole body tensing, acutely aware of every sense. The cars going past on the highway, the smell from the garbage, the sweat gathering on his palms. He looked back at the house, inspecting every window to make sure no one was watching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The glasses inside the case had big lenses, black frames. Luke couldn’t imagine Steven ever wearing something like that. He hurriedly pushed them back under the seat. Closed the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael led him over to the library that night. He stopped Luke in front of the record player. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I put all the ones I’ve listened to in the back so that when I pull from the front I’ll know it’s a new one. And when I hear something I’ve heard before, I’ll know I went through them all. Look at how quick I am at putting them on now!” He showed Luke with an expert twirl of the case. The music filled the room. “Fuck yes. Led Zeppelin. I love this album.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke managed an agreeing sound. His mind was occupied with the glasses in Steven’s car. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it? What’s wrong? You’re not usually so quiet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on. You can talk to me.” Michael touched his arm. “We don’t always have to talk about me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is about you, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Michael’s face fell. “Do you want me to. To go? Leave you alone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No! No! God no, it’s not like that.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your glasses.” Luke hesitated but it was too late to go back, “are they big black ones?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes! That’s what they said anyway. Did you find them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I saw them. It’s probably. I mean. I bet there’s a really good explanation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luke. Stop. Where were they?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In Steven’s car?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael went eerily still. Silent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe you rode somewhere with him and left them there?” Luke tried. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael smiled but it was like a grimace. “That’s probably it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was lying. And they both knew he was lying. But Luke couldn’t make himself ask. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You probably have something I’m keeping you from, huh?” Michael shifted away to the turntable, stopped the music. A clear dismissal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure.” Luke had never had such a short amount of time with Michael.  He paused on his way out the door. “Let me know if you want some eggs or something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.” Michael said. But Luke heard him a minute later going into his room. And he shut the door. Luke didn’t see him again. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>On Wednesday, when Luke pulled up to his parking space in the driveway, he knew immediately that something was wrong. The places where Calum and Steven usually parked were empty. When he went inside, the kitchen was empty, the counters shining and dishes all put away. He wandered the house, checking for anyone, before knocking on Michael’s door. He waited for an answer that never came, pushed open the door and inspected the room. Empty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke did everything on his usual Wednesday list. He did it slow. He was hoping someone would arrive with an explanation. When no one came, he finally turned off all the lights and locked the door behind him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Friday, he was relieved to see Calum’s car in its usual place. But there was a car he didn’t recognize next to it. And when he went in, Calum was standing at the fridge, the counter littered with perishable foods. He was contemplating a lime but he smiled when he saw Luke. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dude,” Luke hurried over, “what’s going on? Where were you Wednesday?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok, right, so” Calum closed the fridge, gestured Luke closer so he could whisper. “Here’s what happened. I wasn’t here but. Apparently, Tuesday Mr. Clifford had a total violent mental break.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No!” Luke gasped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Steven has a scratch like across his face. Looks sick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my God.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Calum looked hard at Luke, concerned. “Luke? You’re getting all upset. Is something-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where is he?” Luke interrupted. “Where did they take him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know. Steven had to sedate him, called some people who came and took him away. Mr. Johnson told me not to come back to work until today. He said I should clean out the fridge and wait for him to call me when ‘my services are needed again.’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke closed his eyes tight shut. He felt sick. “Why’d he do it? What made him-what did Steven say made him…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Calum’s voice was so soft, careful. “Steven said it was just out of nowhere. But he also said Mr. Clifford gets like that sometimes. So it wasn’t like a surprise, really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke opened his eyes at last, making desperate eye contact with Calum. “He’s lying. He’s a fucking liar. Michael’s not like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Michael?” Calum raised an eyebrow. “You have something to share with the class, Luke?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were heavy footsteps approaching before Luke could answer, Mr. Johnson appeared in the doorway. He had his phone held up to his ear. “Mr. Hemmings, I see Calum is already telling you about the situation. There’s no reason for you to be employed here any longer. Your last paycheck will come in the mail.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait.” Luke came around the kitchen island. “I think you’re wrong about what’s going on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Johnson looked annoyed. He lowered the phone. “What do you know about it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, I met Michael one night. He’s not violent. Steven is lying to you. I don’t know happened but-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s right. You don’t know. Whatever impression you got from meeting him one time-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was more than one time. I know what I’m talking about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were explicitly told not to have any interactions with Mr. Clifford. You can leave now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not just leaving!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you don’t exit the property I will call the police. And if you return I will inform Steven to call the police.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t! You can’t do this!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Calum took his arm, left the food sitting out. “Come on, Luke. Let’s go. You’re not going to get anywhere this way. Let’s go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Against his better judgement Luke let himself be pulled out of the house. Outside their cars, Calum put his number into Luke’s phone. “Call me. I want to hear what you think is going on. Oh hey,” he said handing the phone back, “you just got an email.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke looked down at it, disbelieving. Ashton Irwin. All he could see was the subject line: a string of exclamation points and the words HOLY SHIT DUDE. Luke’s laughter had a hysterical edge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course.” he said, “Of course it comes now.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They met at the diner Saturday night, Calum and Luke driving together. When they walked in, they saw Ashton right away, out of place in his leather jacket and perfectly styled hair with one curl falling across his forehead. He stood when they got close, reaching across the table to shake their hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luke, right? And you must be Calum?” He must have been there for a while; there were several teabags circling a saucer to his right with a full cup steaming in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Ashton?” He nodded. Luke let Calum slide into the booth first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for setting this up.” Ashton said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I felt terrible, when I got your email back. I almost never check that email anymore. If I had gotten back to Michael sooner…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault.” Luke said, “If anything, it’s my fault. I said something to Michael that upset him. And then I just. Left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you can say it’s not my fault then I can say the same to you. It’s not your fault, Luke.” Ashton was indeed as nice as his interviews made him appear. His eyes bored right into you. “But maybe you should tell me the whole story.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke sighed. He began with being hired to clean three days a week and paused only to order coffee for him and Calum. Finally, he finished with Mr. Johnson kicking him out of the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashton drained the last of his tea in time for the waitress returning with their coffee, pouring him more hot water. He made a ritual out of opening the tea bag, wrapping the string twice around the handle before commenting on what Luke had said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “There’s two main things that bother me about what you’re saying. This guy, Steven, is with him all day, everyday? What’s he doing for Michael, exactly? And a cleaner and a cook?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke shrugged. “I guess?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashton shook his head firmly. “Michael’s been on his own since he was 16. I’ve seen him grow up, fend for himself. After all this time, I’m supposed to believe that no one’s gotten him past the point of needing that much help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Steven is bad news.” Luke agreed. “I don’t want to accuse him of anything, cause I don't have proof of anything. But.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s more than that. Mr. Johnson moved him out away from anyone who cares about him, without telling us where’d he’d gone. Spent all this money on a house that Michael wouldn’t have been familiar with. Hired all these young people, then told them they’re not allowed to talk to him. And then, not taking Michael out anywhere and, most alarming to me, not expressing concern about how he’s not eating. Which brings me to the second thing: what’s wrong with the food?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Luke said quickly, “Calum’s a really good cook. He makes good food.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashton held up his hands pacifingly. “Sorry. I said that wrong. What I meant was, why wouldn’t Michael eat the food?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke started to answer that too but Calum interrupted him, speaking for the first time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I know something about that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been thinking. When I first started, 6 months back or so, Mr. Clifford. Sorry I mean Michael. I’m still getting used to that. Michael was eating the food. He’d eat anything I made. But then Steven had to go away unexpectedly for a family emergency. I think someone died, I don’t remember. Anyway, they got this nice older lady, Nadia, to sub for him. And I remember she used to call him ‘young man’ which at the time I thought was really condescending but makes sense now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calum, to the point please,” Ashton said as if they’d known each other for years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. So a couple days into Steven being away Michael got like, a really bad flu. Nadia said he was feverish and had chills and could hardly keep anything down. I remember I made him a lot of soup. And he got better. And then Steven came back and Michael stopped eating the food.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was something in it.” Luke could’ve cried. He was thinking now of his first time meeting Michael. How Michael had fallen out of bed, how he had been close to vomiting up what must have been the meager contents of his stomach. How he’d seemed to waver on his feet even with Luke’s arm around him. Luke had attributed all those things to a side effect of his blindness. But now, he couldn’t understand why it hadn’t caused more concern, why he hadn’t looked at that smashed glass of water and asked more questions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But why wouldn’t Michael say, if he thought there was something like that?” Calum was asking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say to who? Plus, Steven has him all convinced that no one else would do the job he does. Like if Michael didn’t have Steven he’d be left all alone. He maybe didn’t even really believe that was really happening. Just stopped eating on like. Instinct or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashton was writing something down in a little notebook. “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll hire a lawyer to get a judge to test Michael for drugs he shouldn’t have in his system. And to check Michael and Mr. Johnson’s finances for signs that he’s been taking out more money than he should’ve. And then I’ll get them to let us in to see Michael. Luke, you in to come and see him when they say we can?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Luke looked at all of Ashton’s tea bags, lined up neatly next to the thick porcelain diner mug. “But what about your album?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashton shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I have a whole team on the album. This is more important.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The psych ward where Michael had been admitted was sunny and bright. Luke felt a rush of relief when he and Ashton walked in and the walls were painted calm neutrals and had big, clear windows. He had been picturing Michael locked away somewhere scary. It had been playing on a loop in his imagination: season 2 of American Horror Story, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. But the receptionist smiled at them, invited them to sit in comfortable chairs while they waited. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashton fidgeted with one his bracelets, shifting in the chair. “I think you should go to see him first.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Luke blinked, surprised. “Why? Don’t you want to see him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do. Of course I do. But. Last time I saw him, I made it worse, harder, for him. So maybe you should go first and make sure he even wants to see me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ashton, don’t be stupid.” Luke could hardly believe he was talking this way to a celebrity he barely knew. But. “Of course he wants to see you. He didn’t mean what he said before. Didn’t you get that from the email?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Just. Ask him, ok? And if he wants to see me, I’ll come right away. And if he doesn’t then. No pressure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ashton,” Luke was trying to form an argument but a nurse appeared in the doorway to take them back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You go. It’s ok.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke stood, followed the nurse back into the building. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The nurse showed him into a large room. Michael was sitting by a window, wearing a cozy sweater. He looked good. Luke hadn’t even really noticed before how pale he’d been at the house, how his hair had always been a tangled mess and how he’d always seemed a few days into needing a shave. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Michael?” The nurse led Luke over closer. “Here’s your visitor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael turned his face towards them. “Who is it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke sat down next to him. Time to say something, he thought. But his brain supplied nothing and he opened and closed his mouth uselessly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s your friend.” The nurse swooped in to rescue him. “What’d you say your name was, honey?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luke,” Luke said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luke?” Michael turned towards him, his face lighting up. “Luke?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, it's me.” Luke couldn’t help the way he was smiling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luke!” Michael repeated a third time. The nurse disappeared. Michael reached out his hands, feeling out the breadth of Luke’s shoulders, one hand running through his hair as if checking it for curls. “Oh my God. What are you doing here? How’d you get in?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke laughed a little at the sensation of Michael’s fingers scratching at his scalp. He extracted Michael’s hands but then held on to both of them with his own. “How’d I get in? Oh man, what a story. It took a combination of charm and wit. Ingenuity. Athleticism.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bullshit!” Michael was delighted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? You don’t believe I made all the nurses fall in love with me, outran some doctors, jumped Jason Bourne style through a window?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, no. Again, bullshit.” Michael was holding tight to Luke’s hands, his smile so big. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well. Anyway, it took some time. But when I figured out where you were, I was going to get to see you, no matter what.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure. I had to know you were ok.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m ok. Everyone’s been really nice to me. I’ve been really good. I think they’ll let me go home soon. As long as I gain some more weight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s good. That’s really good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you were maybe Mr. Johnson, when they said I had a visitor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The nurse had told them a little bit when they’d arrived, about how the therapist was working it out with Michael. What he knew had been done to him, what he believed had been going on. She’d asked them not to reveal anything to him until they were done talking it out. A thing that was almost impossible to do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah?” Luke managed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been waiting for him to come tell me what’s happening with Steven. Oh, hey. You know him a little bit right? Maybe you know if he’s quit or not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know. But I think. Probably,” Luke struggled, “he’s done working for you, yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe you could call him? Tell him I’m really sorry. And I’ll be better. Convince him to come back? You could do that, right? I could pay him more or-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sweetheart,” the endearment just slipped out and Luke barroled past it even though he had no idea what was right to say, “Steven is done and that’s ok. Because we can find someone else. ”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael curled up, his face over their combined hands. “I just want to go home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll come home soon. I promise.” He moved one hand to run his fingers through Michael’s hair. Michael turned his face so that it was pressed against Luke’s thigh, tilting into Luke’s touch. They stayed like that for a long moment. But then Luke remembered Ashton was sitting, waiting, in the reception area, probably desperate to see his friend. “Hey, so. Um. You know how I found you and made them let me in to see you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Michael’s voice was a whisper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well. I didn’t really do any of that. Because you know. I’m not very. Aggressive? Forceful?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” he said again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got an email back from Ashton.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael sat up. “No shit?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No shit. We met at the diner. He’s really nice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is he. I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s here. He wanted me to ask you if you would see him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael closed his eyes. “He’s here? Right now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But. What I said. He must be so mad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not. I swear he’s not. He just wants to see you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can say no,” Luke had never been so careful with his words. “He said no pressure if you don’t want to. But he really wants to see you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael rubbed his thumb over the back of Luke’s hand. He was silent a long time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok,” Michael said finally to their clasped hands, calling back to the night he’d left his house because Luke had asked him to. “Ok, yes, ok.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luke fetched Ashton from the reception room. Ashton was shaking out his wrists the whole way to the visiting room, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, clicking his teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure? Are you sure? He wants to see me? For sure, for sure?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For sure, for sure. He’s nervous too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of comforting him, Ashton looked even more distraught. He bounced on his heels outside the doorway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok, then. Ok.” He turned into the doorway. Michael was still sitting there by the window. But he stood at the sound of footsteps approaching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ash?” He said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Ashton came closer slowly, like he was approaching a scared animal. “Hey, Mikey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke knew at that moment he should leave but there was something too compelling about watching them together. So instead he hovered there in the doorway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael looked like he was two seconds away from crying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ash. Ash.” He swayed in and then away, his fingers digging into his own wrists. “What I said. At the hospital. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I swear. I swear.” He broke off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashton took three quick steps closer, grabbing Michael’s arms. “Stop. I forgave you a long time ago, that same day. You’re my brother, we’re family. I went back to the hospital the next morning.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You did?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They wouldn’t let me in. Said you couldn’t have visitors for a while. I went every day until they told me you’d been moved.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t. I didn’t. No one told me that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I would’ve answered your email sooner. I would’ve said you have nothing to be sorry about. I got caught up in the album. But I love you first, brother. I love you best, you know that right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t deserve that.” Michael was crying for real now. Ashton put his arms around him, turned them so that all Luke could see was Ashton’s back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course you do. Of course. Of course.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke felt suddenly like an interloper. Like he was witnessing something he wasn’t meant to see. He retreated quickly out of the doorway, down the hall. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Luke found a sunny bench outside the front doors of the building. He arranged himself so that he was comfortable with a long wait, stretching his legs out and leaning his head back. It was impossible to know how much time passed but he was very surprised by the thump of Ashton’s body sitting next to him. He jerked up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.” Ashton laughed. There was a buoyancy to him that Luke hadn’t seen before. A release of stress. “Did I scare you? I didn't mean to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ok.” Luke tried to match his smile back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something had occurred to Luke, sitting in the sun. His own superfluousness. Now that Michael’s friend was back in his life and Steven was solidly out of it. What was the point of the person who used to clean his toilets?    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I took up the rest of visiting time. I didn’t mean to. They said we can come back tomorrow though, if we want to.” Ashton had put on sunglasses, hiding his eyes from view. Luke wished he’d thought of that, squinting up at the sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, um, I don’t think I can tomorrow. I have some midterm projects due this week, a test coming up and I haven’t studied. I should really. I mean, I can but.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s cool. Don’t worry. I’ll tell him when I visit tomorrow. He’ll understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok,” Luke said, feeling terrible. Once it made sense he’d come visit again.  “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A week or two later, Luke was in class when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. After, he saw he had a voicemail from an unfamiliar number. It was Michael, of course. Michael’s voice, soft and undemanding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Luke. Um. I got your number from Ash. I hope that’s ok. This is my number. This is my new phone. I’m not very good at using it yet but I’m figuring it out. Anyway. Um. I’m home now. So. I mean. Ash said you're busy with school right now. And. I don’t wanna. I totally get that. I just. I never said thank you for everything you did for me. So I guess this me saying it. Really. Thank you. Shit, this is too long of a voicemail. Who even listens to voicemails, anyway? Ok, bye.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Guilt enveloped Luke. That he had abandoned Michael. That he’d let the image of Ashton and Michael hugging convince him that there was no place for anyone else. He called the number back quick as he could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello?” Michael answered on the third ring. He sounded a little frantic, like he’d had to hunt around for the phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s Luke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luke!” Michael sounded as thrilled to hear from him as he had in the visiting room. Maybe even more. “Hi!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” He said again, smiling up at the oak tree outside the campus arts building. “I got your message. I’m sorry I haven’t been around. I’m the worst.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are not.” Michael said so fast. “You didn’t have to call. I know you're busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not that busy.” It was a weirdly flipped script, Michael giving him excuses and Luke refuting them. “But listen, I’m going to, like, a flea market thing? This weekend? To look for some records? Maybe you want to come?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, of course. What time?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Saturday? 10?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see you then.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Saturday, Michael was sitting outside his house when Luke drove up. He looked really nice, wearing an embellished jean jacket, a button down shirt, a couple long necklaces. Luke said as much when he got out of the car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, is that a new shirt? I never washed it before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael laughed but also looked vaguely embarrassed by it. “How soon can we collectively forget that you were once in charge of washing all my clothes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never!” He was close enough now to hug Michael and he wanted to but didn’t know how to signal it without surprising him. “Seriously, you look really nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks” Michael ran his finger over the longest necklace, swinging the pendant a little. “Ash and I went and got a whole bunch of my stuff out of storage this week. I forgot I even had a bunch of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cool, cool.” Luke nodded along. “Hey, can I hug you?” He flushed immediately, feeling like a biggest loser but Michael threw his head back and laughed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank fuck, I was trying to figure out how to go for one without being awkward as shit.” He opened his arms and Luke stepped in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t think that was awkward as shit?” He said, his face in Michael hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but better you than me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke led him over to the car, watched him slide in before going around to the driver’s side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is everything? Ok?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael nodded. “Yeah, really good actually. The placement people found a carer for me who came and worked here before, when Steven was away a while back. She’s really nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s awesome,” Luke said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Calum’s been here cooking. Nadia brought me to the kitchen so we could meet. You were right. He’s great. Oh! And I’m getting new glasses soon! They had to do some tests to see if my vision’s changed so they should be getting here in another week or two.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s great. That’s so great.” Luke felt a ballooning of happiness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Michael took a careful breath. “I missed you though. Thanks for hanging out with me today.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke briefly looked out the window, so guilty. “I’m sorry. I thought you wouldn’t miss me what with Ashton being around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael snorted a little. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your job to keep my company or anything. I just like you. I like spending time with you, if you want to spend time with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to spend time with you.” Luke wished it was acceptable to touch Michael’s arm, to take his hand. “I like you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok then.” Michael settled further into the car seat. “What are we listening to? Is this Rod Stewart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Luke laughed, “what’s wrong with Rod Stewart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing, nothing,” Michael said in a voice that very much indicated the opposite. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The flea market was spread across a huge public park, rows and rows of tables of venders selling all kinds of odds and ends as far as the eye could see. They wandered together from table to table, Luke pulling out different albums, asking Michael’s opinion on each one. Michael was interested in everything, running his fingers over hand felted throw pillows and trying on strange sunglasses to make Luke laugh. At one point he got into a stall that sold old keys that had been made into pendants, hung on long necklace chains.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to look over there,” Luke said. Michael made an assenting noise and Luke drifted a few tables away. He got absorbed in flipping through a stack of records but was jolted out of it by someone calling his name. He looked up and Michael was several feet away now, turning frantically, his arms outstretched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luke?! Luke?!” his voice was full of panic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here. I’m right here.” Luke crossed over at lightspeed, putting his arms around Michael. He could feel Michael’s heart beating so fast, his breath coming in and out rabbit fast. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The vender inched closer. “Do you guys want some privacy?” She lifted up the tent flap, showing her car parked behind with some folding chairs set up</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Luke pulled Michael over, sat him down in one of the chairs, settled on his knees in the grass beside him. Michael was still breathing in erratic gasps. “Hey. hey, can you breathe with me? In and out. Nice and steady.” He put his hand on Michael’s heart, breathing to show him but also to keep himself from panicking too. “It’s ok. It’s ok. I’m right here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So embarrassing.” Michael gasped out. “You must be. So embarrassed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? No!” Luke shook his head vehemently. “You wanna hear embarrassing? When I was like, 18, right? My friend and I were going to a drag show. And, before, we decided to go to this sketchy seafood restaurant. Well my friend, he dared me to order this gross looking shrimp thing and it’s a dare so, of course, i do it. And it arrives and it’s gigantic. So he dares me to eat it all. And it’s a dare, so what can you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eat all of it,” Michael’s voice was stronger, steadier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. So then we go to the show. And two songs in, guess who vomits shrimp all over the stage?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Michael laughed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. So. What I’m saying is. I know embarrassing and what happened just there? That ain’t it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael squeezed his eyes shut. “I thought you left. Steven used to say, when I was acting shitty, ‘you think you’re all that, I’d like to see you get home by yourself if I didn’t come to pick you up from somewhere one day.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That fucker, Luke thought. That piece of shit, that mother-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael was still talking. “I used to have nightmares sometimes that I was, like, all alone in a place I didn’t recognize and had no idea how to get home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke put his hands on Michael’s shoulders. “I would never leave you like that. Never. Never. Ever. I promise.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that. I just. Had a moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ok.” Luke rubbed his back a little, “hey, do you want to stop on the way home? I could go for a burrito.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok,” Michael stood up. Luke took his hand, gave in to his desire to lace their fingers together, acceptability be damned. Michael squeezed Luke’s hand tight, let himself be pulled along. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I always put off posting the last chapter because I'm like 'nooooo! I'm not ready!' I'm like a parent dropping off their child at college and then hanging around drinking coffee at the Starbucks across the street. ANYWAY! Thank you for reading! I'm very very bad at responding to comments but I appreciate anyone who stuck around, read this, commented, liked it, ect. ect. </p>
<p>I'm not making any promises vis a vis writing/not writing more. I've learned my lesson.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They hung out on the regular after that. Luke went to the house often after class or picked Michael up and took him to the diner for pie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few weeks later, Luke went upstairs, unerringly heading first to the library. He could hear the music coming from the turntable, Michael’s voice singing with his old band. Michael himself was sitting leaned back against the table. Like old times. Luke arranged himself next to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” he said. “Is this your album?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I asked Ash to bring it over. I just wanted to see. How listening to it would make me feel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How does it make you feel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael shrugged. “I told my new therapist about not being able to tell which is the shampoo. She sounded like. Surprised. That I would still be struggling with that. She said you can get shampoo and conditioner in some brands that mark on the bottle which is which for that reason exactly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmmm.” Luke was struggling to see the connection to the record they were listening to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And then I said, ‘do you think Steven didn’t know that?’ and she said, ‘do you think Steven didn’t know that?’ which is an annoying thing she does all the time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke made what he hoped was an encouraging sound but Michael didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned over until his head was resting on Luke’s shoulder. They let the music wash over them for a minute. Finally Michael whispered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The way Steven treated me...it wasn’t right, was it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke abandoned any attempt to keep his opinion to himself. “No. It was fucking terrible.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t believe. I thought that was. I don’t know. Like I deserved it or something. Like I ruined my life and. Steven was just treating me the way I deserved to be treated.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>  “Oh. Sweetheart.” Luke couldn’t help it. He pulled Michael into his arms, wrapping him up. “You so,so didn’t. Didn’t ruin your life. Didn’t deserve that. But you know what? I think a part of you knew that. Because you wouldn’t eat the food. And I bet that pissed him off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. It really did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael let himself just be held, let Luke rock him back and forth while they both pretended he wasn’t crying a little. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, he asked, “He’s not going to do that to someone else, is he?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. Ashton’s going to make sure. He’s not going to ever be hired in a position where he can treat someone like that ever, ever again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And Mr. Johnson?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nope. Him either. Never again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s good.” They stayed quiet while the song played out, the record stopped spinning above them. Into the silence Michael said, “I asked my therapist if she thought I was in love with you, or just like. Hero worshipping you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’d she say?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not going to believe this.” Michael pulled away so Luke could see him smiling. “But she said, ‘Do you think you’re hero worshipping him?’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both laughed. “Oh my God. That is really annoying.” He considered. “Well there’s no rush, right? We can wait and see. Maybe you’ll feel differently in a week or a month or whatever. Maybe I’m not in love with you either. Maybe I have some kind of saviour complex.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But.” Michael was smiling wider, showing the lines around his eyes, “you feel in love with me, right now?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Of course.” Like, obviously, who wouldn’t be? Luke thought but managed to keep in his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Damn. Now I really would like to kiss you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Damn.” Luke agreed. “No rush.” he continued, helping Michael up. “How about I make you some eggs instead?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok,” Michael agreed, his hand on Luke’s elbow. It felt more just for the touch then necessity. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Later that month, Luke let himself in through the kitchen, walking right into what was clearly madness. There were vegetables spread across the island, spices lined up by the stove, something bubbling in a big pot, Calum and Michael huddled over a cutting board. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um,” Luke said, “hello.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Calum’s teaching me how to cook!” Michael brandished the knife for emphasis. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Soup, vegetable,” Calum expounded, ducking. “It’s actually almost done. Luke, you can take your spider-like arms over there and get the bowls off the top shelf of the cabinet. Get four. Ashton’s should be coming soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bold of you to just assume I can reach.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re like, 6’8,” Michael said. “There’s nothing in any kitchen in America you can’t reach.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“6’8”? I’m 6’2” at best.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. No way. I’m 6’1” and you tower over me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s just because I wear a lot of boots with big heels.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well.” Michael gave the knife another wave, “how the fuck was I supposed to know that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke laughed. “Interesting. I didn’t know you had this curmudgeon side.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well you have a real whiny bitch side so we both learned something about each other today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Calum disappeared below the island counter, followed by muffled laughter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke took two steps closer, carefully relieving Michael of the knife. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Calum,” he declared, “I’m going to kiss Michael now. Stay below the counter please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Christ.” he heard Calum say. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” Michael asked. “Me calling you a whiny bitch decided it for you? Should we unpack that? Do you want to borrow my shrink?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We were all worried that it was savior complex feelings. I still like you so much even when you insult me. And you aren’t worried about insulting me. So. I’d like to kiss you now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s get on with it then.” Michael said. “What are you waiting for?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke touched Michaels new glasses, the clear frames giving his face nice dimension. “These look good on you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re stalling, Hemmings. Kiss now, compliments later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah!” Calum yelled from below the counter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke slid his fingers up into Michael's hair, closing the distance between them. Michael’s mouth felt soft against his. He felt Michael’s hands come up to clasp his waist. When they broke apart with a gasp, Luke couldn’t say how much time had passed. He chased after Michael’s mouth for another kiss and then another. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were interrupted by the door opening, Ashton’s voice calling out. “Hey, I heard there was dinner- oh shit! Sorry!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don't be sorry!” Calum emerged at last. “Save me, Ash!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, Cal. Let’s go set the table.” They left the room in a hurry. Luke watched the way they walked close to each other. He filed that observation away to revisit at dinner. When he turned back, Michael was touching the corner of his mouth, looking shy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was that ok?” Luke asked tentatively. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Michael answered. “How about for you? Did it feel like a savior complex kiss?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmmm…” Luke touched Michael’s shoulder, his cheek, tucked some hair behind his ear. He couldn’t seem to stop touching him. “I’m not sure. Maybe we better try again. Just to be sure.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael leaned in immediately. And the pot was bubbling on the stove. And there were sounds coming from the dining room, plates and silverware clinking together, Ashton and Calum laughing. All the lights were on in the big old house and Luke kissed Michael again and again and kept kissing him. Until Ashton coughed loudly from the doorway and they went laughing together to go try the soup Michael and Calum had made. </span>
</p>
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